


Your Head Will Collapse (if there's nothing in it)

by AndreaLyn



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-29
Updated: 2012-03-29
Packaged: 2017-11-02 17:15:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/371434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndreaLyn/pseuds/AndreaLyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>It’s bad news from every corner of the world and Arthur wonders when it’s going to hit home.</i> The dream-sharing community is struck by a disease they can't fight off and Arthur bides his time until the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Head Will Collapse (if there's nothing in it)

_subject: latest test results_

Arthur, since we last spoke, there have been four new deaths. The symptoms are the same – first the fever, then the delirium, followed by the patient’s inability to denote the difference between the dream and reality. Any additional information you’ve gleaned in your travels would help us immensely. 

For god’s sake, Arthur, get to the nearest base. We’ll run tests. Your recent actions don’t need to come up.

Sincerely,

-Captain Henry Holmes

* * *

They say that it’s like the blood is replaced by kerosene and the whole body goes up in flames, once the fever hits. Since the first cases were announced, Arthur’s kept a careful watch on his every physiological reaction, but nothing changes. Week after week, new cases hit the papers – relegated to the back pages since the government refuses to release information about their dreamsharing program – but he escapes unscathed.

He travels across the world to meet with old contacts. It seems that no one can escape unscathed. In Paris, he’ll shake hands with a point man whose fingers quake thunderously. In Beijing, one of Arthur’s favorite chemists is pale and is _convinced_ she’s still dreaming with every waking moment.

It’s bad news from every corner of the world and Arthur wonders when it’s going to hit home.

“Anything?” he asks during his weekly check-in with Cobb.

“There’s been no temperature, no shakes, and I haven’t had any hallucinations,” Cobb says. Arthur bites his tongue, not wanting to point out that Cobb wouldn’t know whether he was losing track of reality; especially given his history.

Every time Arthur checks his e-mails, he wonders whether he should stop this deceitful game. The army’s cases weren’t the first – he wonders what they would do with the knowledge that patient zero was a Frenchwoman who went too deep and too often and paid the price for it. Sometimes, Arthur wonders if the coming end is a relief for Cobb.

After all, it must have alleviated some of the guilt.

“Arthur, you need to call Ariadne.”

That, he hadn’t expected. “Is she still in Paris?”

“Amsterdam, I think. She went as soon as the first symptoms hit.”

The worst part in all of this has been the random nature in which the disease strikes. There’s _no reason_ that Ariadne should be suffering from its effects. Of all of Arthur’s contacts, her fleeting dalliances with dreamsharing should have kept her in the clear, but that’s only if he operates on the basis that life is fair.

He knows better than to believe in that fallacy. 

“She’s scared, Arthur.”

“You’d have to be stupid not to be.”

* * *

When they first got word, Arthur wishes he could say he was surprised. Dreamsharing had been a secret project hoarded by the governments of forward-thinking countries, eager to create the perfect soldier. They rounded up the best chemists they could, but it had been a new arms race between the wealthiest countries. 

_Somnacin_ came into being and it appeared to work.

How could each nation have known the ramifications of their impatience? It looked like they’d solved the problem. Training went forward, the thieves co-opted their technology, and the greed of corporations turned dreamsharing into an open-market business. They didn’t know what they doing, not in the long run.

“You know,” Eames says, mixing a generous amount of gin in his tonic. “If I were more of a paranoid conspiracy theorist, I’d say they _wanted_ this to happen.”

“Eames, don’t be ridiculous.”

“Honestly. Think about it. They leak the technology out to some of the most despicable people in the world. Thieves, brigands, thugs,” he lists casually, sprawling back in Arthur’s leather chair as he swirls his drink and crosses his legs. “Suddenly, the criminal population in the back-alleys and the seedy bars starts to drop like flies.”

“Is this a social visit?” Arthur asks. He stands with his back to Eames, mixing drinks in the kitchen. “Or are you here with bad news?”

He doesn’t face Eames. He’s not sure he can. Arthur manages on a day-to-day basis by avoiding the reality of their situation. He’s never witnessed firsthand when the grasp on reality becomes so tenuous that _waking up_ becomes a person’s only goal.

“Bad news, I’m afraid.”

Arthur can feel his muscles tightening. He doesn’t look back, refuses to see the expression on Eames’ face when he speaks. “What?” he exhales as he prepares for the worst.

“Yusuf’s dead.”

Arthur’s hand stills with the scotch in hand, shakes for the briefest of moments, and then steadies. He pours three fingers and takes careful consideration to cap the bottle before facing Eames. “When?”

“Two weeks back – it was very sudden. To be honest,” Eames says, laughing darkly, “I heard rumours that when the first symptoms hit, he administered the highest possible dose. Suicide by Somnacin. He always did manage to come up with something revolutionary,” he remarks, lifting his glass in the air. “I’ll miss him.”

Arthur stares at Eames’ fingers framing the glass, watching critically for any sign of weakness. He’s the only one he lets visit. Maybe it’s because they’ve both had similar durations of contact with the drug or maybe it’s because if anyone’s going to be stubborn enough to find a cure, it’ll be Eames.

Sometimes, in the darkest hours of the night, Arthur admits that he lets Eames visit him because he makes the fear quiet down just long enough for him to remember that his life isn’t over, not yet. 

“Are you going to stay the night?” Arthur asks, avoiding eye contact as he sips at his drink.

Eames licks his lips and leans forward, plucking Arthur’s glass from his hands. It forces Arthur to look at him and he doesn’t like what he sees – Eames should never look so afraid, not when he’s Arthur’s personal canary in the coalmine. It’s a sign that there might not be a kick that gets them out of this. “Only if you answer one question.”

“Anything.”

“Have you started to dream again?”

“No.”

“You’re worried that you’re going to, aren’t you?”

“No,” he lies, knowing that Eames can see right through him.

* * *

He doesn’t hear from Cobb for weeks and Arthur develops a strained tic whenever the phone rings. Each time he picks up the phone, it’s to more bad news from all corners of the world. People are dying – thieves and soldiers, both – and the same chemists who came up with the drug couldn’t cure it because they succumbed to its effects months back.

He could call California, but the fear of Philippa answering the phone to tell Arthur that both her father and grandfather are gone stop him -- better to live in happy denial. 

Eames starts to visit more often these days.

Arthur stops picking fights. If time is truly fleeting, then there’s no point in continuing on like normal. There’s no audience to amuse and Arthur is growing tired of the constant fear that every day brings. The next time Eames stays the night, Arthur doesn’t sleep at all. Eames has been to California, which means he’s seen Cobb.

He’s been in Arthur’s apartment for over twelve hours, but they still haven’t talked about it. 

Instead, Arthur slides his palm out from under Eames’ and studies it in the dim light of the bedroom, closing his eyes as he keeps his hand steady; waiting expectantly for the slight tremor that signifies everything is going to change. Nothing happens. Eames mumbles in his sleep and turns over and Arthur loses the warmth of Eames’ body. 

He wonders if the faint electricity he feels is because of Eames’ touch or whether Arthur is starting to remember what it feels like to hope. 

In the morning, he calls California.

It’s Phillipa who answers. “Dad!” Phillipa shouts after ‘hello’ and ‘how are you?’ “It’s Arthur! He wants to talk to you!”

* * *

“There’s an experimental drug, you know,” Eames says, wandering around Arthur’s bedroom. He’s shirtless, which means that Arthur is only half-paying attention to what he’s saying. Weeks ago, Arthur had started a campaign to trace out every tattoo with his tongue – if he’s dying, he might as well attempt his bucket list. “We’d have to fly to Beijing. Are your papers in order?”

“Success rate?” Arthur asks. 

“Depends.”

They’d heard from Ariadne last week. Due to her brief exposure with the drug, the doctors were able to mitigate her symptoms. _Manageable_ , she’d said, _but on a lifelong basis._ Eames and Arthur are a different breed. It’s been over a decade since they first started this. Their bloodstreams must be toxic warzones by now and it’s only a matter of time before the battle begins.

“Depends on what, Eames?” Arthur asks patiently. 

Eames ignores the question, scrolling through e-mails on his phone. “You know what it depends on, Arthur. You never liked stupid questions, so don’t ask them now.”

“So don’t be obtuse and I won’t have to ask stupid questions,” Arthur replies – and maybe some of the fighting hasn’t ceased because they were never going to get along, not all the time. “Eames, success rates.”

“Users of Somnacin who used the drug a maximum of ten times per year see high success rates. Seventy percent,” Eames reads aloud. “For those who utilized the drug on a more regular basis, say, once or twice a week in order to steal thoughts, ideas, and information from peoples’ minds, find that the success rate is rather low. Two percent, actually.”

Arthur quietly does the math – the cost of the trip, the likelihood of physical and emotional stress. “No,” he says finally. He doesn’t want to waste the remaining weeks of his life on a wild goose chase. “Eames, stop looking through the trades and come here,” he requests, sitting up. The sheets pool around his waist and it’s easy to fixate on prying the phone from Eames’ hands.

It’s easier than admitting that last night, he’d _dreamed_.

* * *

The day that Arthur’s hands begin to shake is the day Saito sends an email to inform him that his team has yet to achieve any quantifiable progress. 

Eames has stopped leaving the apartment. His temperature burns warmer every night and he’s moved his possessions under Arthur’s roof –the stolen Rembrandts and the forged contracts in progress now number amongst Arthur’s miniature labyrinths and his books on the fragility of the human mind.

Arthur doesn’t touch Eames. He won’t, not since he lost control of his hands.

In his dreams, his hands slide over the frame of Eames’ body with grace and ease as he brings him to a climax that he can’t manage in reality – not anymore. He coaxes Eames with a stroke of a finger and a press of his tongue to the crease of Eames’ hip, sliding inwards as he elicits sound after perfect sound from Eames’ lips. 

With every passing night, these dreams begin to consume Arthur until he can’t tell what’s real and what he needs to wake up from. 

The world of dreamers is crumbling, crashing, tumbling and no one will survive the fall. Arthur continuously wakes to Eames’ body pressed tightly to his, as if this intimacy can frighten away the death that’s been coming for them since they first used Somnacin, unaware of what they were bringing upon themselves.

* * *

“Cobb’s dead.”

Eames’ fever burns higher than ever before and Arthur has stopped being able to tell what is reality and what is the dream. On a sunny Los Angeles street, Cobb’s body lies in intricate twists and turns, as if in his final moment, he chose to honor Mal in the only way he could – by _waking up_.

Eames’ smile is as dark as the apartment. They’ve stopped raising the blinds and now, only the dimmest of sunset-light filters in through the edges of the window treatments. It casts a sick amber pall on the floor and makes Eames’ skin look sallow. “We had a good run.”

“Are you suggesting…”

“Yusuf always did have the best ideas,” Eames replies, nudging the silver case towards Arthur. He’s giving him a choice when so many of his choices have been taken away from them. Knowing Eames, there will be more than enough of Somnacin inside. There won’t be any totem or kick strong enough to pull them out of the depths of this dreaming death.

He isn’t even sure if this is _real_. This could be one more hopeful dream that he’s having, his subconscious seeking an end.

Arthur traces the clear line reverently, his fingers following it until plastic meets skin. Eames’ fingers make quick work of the attachment, even if they do shake, and it’s Arthur whose fingers hover over the trigger.

“Go to sleep, Mr. Eames.”

* * *

Arthur dreams and there is no kick.

There is only deeper to delve into the dreamspace and he falls without restraint or hesitation. 

He dreams until the very end.


End file.
